


Dress Up

by orphan_account



Series: When The Day Met The Night [3]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Cissexism, F/M, Fluff, Misgendering, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no way Crona’s going to be able to pick anything from all these clothing options...this is way too much pressure…what’s a bust size? How do the numbers on the tags relate to anything? And why do the pants have so many pockets? What even goes in there?</p><p>“I don’t know how to deal with this,” he says to himself outloud.</p><p>He finds Maka and insists that she help him get started.</p><p>(Or: Maka and Crona go shopping.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Up

**02\. Dress Up**

_-September 18_ _ th _ _, 2009-_

One of the first things Maka noticed about Crona, upon meeting him that night in the Novella church, was the long, old-fashioned black gown that he wore. It was a strange thing for a boy to wear, she’d thought briefly, (and she _could_ tell Crona was a boy despite the skirt…she didn’t know why, she just could), but then it wasn’t _really_ a traditional dress; the stiff collar and sleeves made it look more like something a priest or a nun would wear, rather than something fancy or elegant.

And Crona doesn’t look bad in it, considering; sort of uncomfortable, like the garment is too heavy and the collar’s a bit prickly, but something about it is sleek, too, and somewhat flattering. (Maka can’t put her finger on what exactly makes it flattering when she looks at him; it’s a pretty bleak outfit objectively, and she’s not big on fashion but even she’d be concerned if she saw anyone else walking around in that thing; is it the contrast between the sweeps of dark fabric and the pallor of his skin? Is it the abnormal caginess of the gown, the obscurity of it, in contrast to the gentle and open person that Maka is realizing Crona is underneath the layers? Or is it the way that it gathers just so at his tiny little waist, the swoop of the skirt accentuating what follows?)

(Maybe it’s that Maka is thinking entirely too much about one piece of clothing, and about Crona in general...she’s glad that none of her friends have noticed her tendency to stare at him in some of her idle moments yet, in her rapt observance of him and his mannerisms; she knows Soul’ll tease her for it, the way he always does when she finds a new obsession to study...)

During his first week at school, Crona continues to wear the oddly-becoming black “dress” every day. He calls it his “robe,” and Ragnarok has emerged from the slit in the back of the garment to inform Maka that it’s “drag.”

One afternoon at lunch, when Crona leaves the table for a moment to re-fill his tray, Crona’s clothing choice becomes the brief topic of conversation between Maka and friends (mostly Maka’s friends).

“Crona’s cool,” Black Star says to the group of them, “but what’s with that creepy funeral dress he’s always wearing?”

Soul chuckles and Maka elbows him in the gut, frowning at Black Star.

“It’s not a dress,” she corrects, ( _“Ow,”_ Soul supplies), “ _he_ says that it’s a robe.”

“It sure looks like a dress,” Patty comments, “but it’s a cool dress! I want one.”

“Did Lord Death not give him a choice of uniform, like he did with all of us when we got here?” Tsubaki asks.

“I don’t know,” Maka says, concerned. “He is still a trial student, so maybe not…”

She looks over her shoulder to look at Crona, who’s having a hard time maneuvering through the crowd of students without wanting to bump into anyone; she’s acutely aware of those students who are passing by him brusquely as if he’s in the way, or staring at him (and at how long the length of his skirt is specifically) as if he’s a fish out of water, and it makes her want to get up and personally clear a path for him herself to make him feel like he fits in somewhere.

To see that look of ever-constant worry on his face be replaced with one of those smiles…

Maka sighs, watching him. She can’t imagine what it must be like for him, being around this many people for the first time in one place, in a normal setting. She still doesn’t know the details of his past—only that he walked the path of a Kishin, and that that path is one of despair, loneliness, and death—but she does know that because he was trained to be a living weapon, actual socialization with human beings isn’t going to be an easy feat for him right away.

He needs for the transition from recluse to well-adjusted boy to be as smooth as it can be, Maka thinks, and so far, it’s been a little awkward for him. Maybe it’d help if he didn’t stand out so much?

“He _is_ a he, right?” Black Star questions now.

“He’s never corrected us if we’re wrong,” says Kid. “Besides, plenty of men wear dresses. I think it’s perfectly normal.”

“Does he have an Adam’s apple?” Tsubaki asks.

“It’s not like we could see it under the habit,” Liz comments.

 _It’s not a habit,_ Maka seethes in her head. She still keeps an eye on Crona in the distance.

“I say there’s no way a guy could have hips like that,” Black Star points out brashly.

Soul barks out another laugh. “Why’re you staring at another guy’s hips, dude?”

“I’m not!”

“If he were a girl would you think he was hot or something?”

“I didn’t say that! I’m just saying, they look like girl-hips…”

“Don’t be mean,” Maka warns Black Star, turning to look at him.

“How’s what I said mean?!”

“If you wanna know so bad whether or not he’s a girl, why don’t you just ask him?” Soul says.

“You can’t just ask people stuff like that,” Maka complains.

“We may be able to tell if he ever wears something form-fitting, or revealing,” Liz says suggestively, smiling.

“I say we get Crona into some normal clothes so we can see!” exclaims Patty, banging a fist on the table in excitement. “Boy clothes! Or girl clothes!”

Crona’s given up on trying to return to the line for more food—too many people crowding around, not enough resolve to deal with them—and returns with his empty tray, sitting back down next to Maka and sighing. His face is still somewhat somber, but Maka can feel his wavelength wrapping around hers, reaching out for comfort. She shifts a little closer to him on the bench, willing to comfort. She glances down at his hands, slightly trembling around the edges of the tray, and thinks for a moment about comforting them with her own hands…

But the rest of the table’s gone suspiciously quiet in that obvious way that says that they were just talking about him. (And Black Star is tangibly trying too hard to _not_ look at him, and Patty is grinning awkwardly.)

Maka can feel Crona tensing up next to her.

“What is it?” he says, blushing dark. He turns to look at Maka. “D-did I do something?”

“No Crona, you’re fi—“

“We were just wondering why you wear the same black dress every day!” Patty chirps up.

Crona’s wavelength constricts, and starts to tremble.

Maka feels bad that they’re bringing it up. She knows they’re just curious, but everytime he’s questioned about his (recent) past in any capacity, she can feel the sheer nervousness that radiates from him.

It’s not like he’d planned on surrendering to the DWMA on the night he had...not like he’d brought anything from home with him, wherever home even was. The gown he wears now _is_ always clean—he washes it by hand with soap and water each night in the dungeon showers, he told Maka the other day—but it occurs to Maka now: what if he doesn’t _want_ to wear the stoic robes anymore?

 _Has_ he ever worn anything else in his life?

It saddens her to imagine that he could’ve never had the choice before now.

“Well I, um...“ Crona begins uneasily, glancing down at his lap, at the skirt pooled between his legs. “I-I’ve never had any other clothes, really...”

“Really? Like ever?” Black Star asks.

“Not even pajamas?” says Tsubaki.

“How does that still fit you if you’ve never had anything else?” Patty objects, ducking her head under the table to look for herself.

“Don’t ask him so many questions,” Maka grumbles.

“Money’s no object here at the academy,” says Kid to Crona now, and Crona still hasn’t answered anyone, or looked anyone in the eye, “I’m sure there’s something I can do to get you some new things to wear, if you’d like me to speak to my father.”

“Oh, no, i-it’s alright,” Crona attempts, shifting uncomfortably, “I don’t really n-need anything--”

“What about something like this?” Liz has pulled up an example of a sundress on her iPhone, and is holding out towards him now with a smile (and he retracts with a squeal like it’s a weapon in his face). “I think it’d look _great_ on your figure.”

He wraps his hands around his waist protectively, beginning to visibly sweat. “M-my figure?!”

“I know of a store that has stuff like that downtown!” Tsubaki supplies.

“We could take you shopping! How ‘bout it Crona?!” Patty demands.

“I--uh--” Crona is shaking now, unable to handle so many people asking him things at once, “I-I, I don’t know--”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Crona.”

Crona glances over at Maka when she speaks to him, his arms still covering himself. When he looks at her, she feels the trembling in his soul wavelength start to calm down again.

She smiles reassuringly.

“You can wear whatever you want to while you’re here.”

She still looks him right in the eyes, and he still keeps up her gaze, and for a couple seconds it’s like the noise around them has paused, and they’re the only two people at the table, in the room.

And Maka feels warm just focusing on him, and getting him to focus on her.

“It’s totally up to you,” she says, and she brushes her shoulder against his playfully, gently. “Okay?”

Crona continues staring at her for a moment, and then, just a little, she can see the corner of his mouth shyly spread into a smile.

He ducks his head and stares down at his lap, if only to hide that smile that he’s still insecure about showing.

His voice is perfectly level again when he speaks, as if there were never a disturbance on the front.

“Okay.”

And getting him to listen to her voice--and _only_ hers, not a chorus of several at once in a way that clearly disorients him--has just the effect on Crona that she hopes--the last of the trembling ceases and his soul wavelength becomes soothed.

And now she can sense that everyone at the table--especially Soul--is staring at her, and her apparent pacifist influence over the otherwise panicky alien-boy.

The lunch period resumes soon enough without the conversation being direct to or about Crona, which Crona silently appreciates; as Crona leaves to return to his room, and the others all head towards their next class, Soul nudges Maka in the arm and says something like, “You know how to speak Crona’s language, huh?” and Maka tries to act like she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“What do you mean ‘his language?’”

“I don’t know. He gets freaked out like he might piss his pants whenever anybody but you tries to talk to him, or even look at’m.” Soul smiles. “I think he likes you.”

Maka rolls her eyes. Can’t a boy and a girl be nice to each other for _a few days_ without people making assumptions? _Welcome to high school,_ she reminds herself.

“He does not,” she combats. “We’re friends.”

Soul says “Yeah we’ll see how long that lasts on his end,” and Maka spends the entire next class trying _not_ to read into the fact that she’s the only one who’s made Crona smile since he got here.

**(~)**

It’s something that most people take for granted, the freedom to dress themselves. And Crona has never experienced free will in any capacity, even with something as simple as the clothes he put on his back.

He was always _told_ everything he ever did; where to go, where to sleep, who to stalk and kill, and even what to say-- _Yes ma’am, No ma’am, My blood is black_.

And that’s why, later on that afternoon when he meets up with Maka, and the topic of clothes comes back into discussion, he realizes that he doesn’t know the first thing about what he would be wearing if he’d had the choice. He doesn’t know anything about choices; the fact that he’s being told that he has many of them all the sudden makes him nervous.

Medusa used to tell him that the robe he wore was to make him blend into the darkness; so that he would not be seen at night when he went out to kill, so that he would not mistake himself as someone who was meant to be seen in the light. It represented the cloak of servitude to her that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to take off--and besides the times he needed to wash it or himself, Crona _did_ never take the robe off--

He didn’t even like to look at his own body, let alone imagine anyone else seeing it.

But sitting across from Maka now, as they’re sitting in his room picking through elaborate puzzle pieaces...seeing the way the skin of her thighs peek out from her skirt, the way her sweater vest is pastel yellow like happiness, her tie a soothing green that matches her eyes...he wonders what that must be like, to be dressed in colors that make others feel warm inside when they look at you…

He wants to be like that, he thinks for a moment...only for the voice of self-hatred that lives in his head, the one that sounds like Medusa, to tell him, _Don’t be stupid, child. You belong to me._

_You will never be like someone like her. You will never be close to her._

_Never be happy._

“Maka?”

Crona says her name almost without meaning to, to block out the voice in his head.

She looks up from the puzzle pieces at him, attentively, instantly, and it’s strange, he thinks, how even just thinking about Maka or looking at Maka makes the constraints of his past seem so far away.

“What is it?”

He pulls at one of the sleeves of his robes.

“I was thinking.” His eyes roam across her skirt, the hem of her sweater. “A-about what they were saying about at lunch. I do want to wear something else sometimes, maybe. Like um, normal clothes...like you do.”

The smile that appears on Maka’s face is absolutely wonderful.

“Do you want me to help you something out?” she asks. “There’s some stores not far from here we could walk to, and my dad gave me gift cards to them for my birthday that I’m _never_ gonna use--” _I don’t wanna give him the satisfaction,_ she thinks stubbornly, she really hates accepting gifts from him--

Crona nods, and nearly smiles.

“I would like that,” he says.

**(~)**

So, the puzzle discarded, the two of them take a ten minute’s walk from the academy and into the shopping district of downtown.

When they head into a store that’s intended for boys, Ragnarok makes an unwelcome appearance, much to Maka’s chagrin.

“This is all wrong!” Ragnarok squeaks, leaning over to dangle himself in front of Maka’s face. “This priss pot can’t wear pants, have you looked at the kid?!” The weapon fists the hem of Crona’s dress and tries to pull it up over Crona’s head, to which Crona panics and fights to pull it back down-- “Ragnarok, please! W-we’re in public!”-- “Take him to a store with lacy panties! And pink! And ballet skirts!”

Maka pulls a book out of (seemingly) thin air and smacks Ragnarok across the face with it, and the screech the weapon lets out draws the attention of everyone in the store (as if it wasn’t already drawn).

“Hit me with that book in the face one more time, you fat cow!” Ragnarok threatens. “And just see what happens!”

“Go away! No one asked for your opinion!” Maka groans.

She clocks him in the face again. Crona is cowering in embarrassment now, and Ragnarok’s finally rendered defenseless by the impact of the second Maka-chop, slithering back inside mumbling that “Maka’s such a bitch.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘boy clothes’ or ‘girl clothes,’” Maka tells Crona matter-of-factly, and she’s completely regained her calmness, taking Crona's hand in hers and walking with him further into the store. “Don’t listen to him and try on whatever you think looks nice.”

Crona looks for the first time at just how much variety there is in the clothing choices. While there are no garments that have long skirts the way his familiar robe does, there are all different kinds of colors, and sleeve lengths, and pant lengths, and patterns...for a minute or two, after Maka lets go of his hand and begins to browse herself, he just stares at the racks upon racks and regrets ever coming to the store in the first place.

There’s no way he’s going to be able to pick anything from all these options...this is way too much pressure…what’s a bust size? How do the numbers on the tags relate to anything? And why do the pants have so many pockets? What even _goes_ in there?

“I don’t know how to deal with this,” he says to himself outloud.

So he finds Maka and insists that she help him get started.

She doesn’t want to impose her personal preferences on him at first, this whole trial enrollment is about _his_ wants, and _his_ choices, but she has to admit that the second she’d walked into the store, she’d seen about ten different outfits alone that would look cute on him.

She plucks several nice things off of hangers for him within seconds, and then cheerfully sends him on his way to the dressing rooms.

Before he goes in, and before she sits down in a chair just outside the changing room door, he stops to say something to her.

“Um, Maka? What Ragnarok said…” He pauses, looking embarrassed, glancing at the floor. “He’s right, I’ve never really worn pants before…I don’t know if they’ll look right...”

Maka focuses her attention on his soul wavelength, focusing on the warm feeling of her own reaching out to reassure his.

“It’s okay,” she says. “If you don’t like the way they look, we don’t have to buy them.”

He hesitates again for a moment, and then he says something that catches her a little off guard.

“H-he always says that I’m a girl, and my mother never told me what I was, but--y-you can call me a boy.” His voice is quiet, unassuming...lifeless. “If you’d like.”

Maka stares at him. Something like sadness grabs a hold of her, making a discomforting home for itself in her chest; it’s a sorrowful, lonely sadness, that’s coming from his soul wavelength and affecting her, she recognizes.

 _His identity has never even been his own,_ she recognizes, and suddenly the conversation her friends had about him earlier-- _”He is a he, right?” “It’s not like we could see it under the habit.”--_ makes her wonder just how many times he’s been told that he can’t be who he truly is.

“If _I’d_ like?” Maka repeats.

She steps forward, closer to him, and lightly pinches his cute little nose.

“Silly,” she gently reprimands. Though her heart skips a beat as she does it, she runs the back of her fingers down his cheek, which is tinged with warmth from the blood rush beneath his skin; she just wants the sadness she feels to be alleviated in both of their souls.

She adds, quite seriously, “Whatever you wanna be called is up to you.”

_No one can take who you are from you. No one._

Crona makes eye contact with her, and feels those butterflies in his stomach again, and _Maka is so terribly pretty, and so nice to me,_  he thinks as his stomach lurches.

Then politely, he says:

“A boy, then.”

She gives him one of her signature grins. “Of course.”

The sad wavelength evaporates as he turns and lets himself into the dressing room, replaced by one of ease again, and Maka thinks that being able sense exactly what he’s feeling, right when he’s feeling it, is _entirely_ too enticing to her at this point already.

Maka sits in the chair and puts her hand to her own face, which is just as warm as his was.

He comes out in a blue and white striped t-shirt, with tan slacks and brown suspenders for the first outfit. When he emerges, hands in pockets, expression shy, she’s caught off guard by how, well, natural he looks in the attire.

The t-shirt is soft and slimming, fitting him almost perfectly, the sleeves stopping just beneath his narrow shoulders. This is the first time she’s seen his arms, she realizes, and for all that he’s a thin boy she can still see wiry muscle running down his biceps, his forearms. He does have a small waist, and the pants are a little too big, but the suspenders help keep them up and the way that one of the straps is slightly hanging off one shoulder, and the way he’s standing with one hip slightly tilted, makes the simple outfit look as though he was made to wear it.

He’s staring rather resolutely at the floor, nervous beneath her lovely gaze. He’s trembling, and his mind is filled with negative voices, just at the fact that his scarred arms and neck are exposed to her, that parts of his bare body are being displayed for no reason relating to his purpose. _Your body is not yours--this skin is not yours to reveal--your body is a vessel for the black blood--you are my child--_

“Perfect!” Maka says, standing up from her chair and showing him ten fingers.

Crona’s wide eyes meet hers, her voice snapping him out of his thoughts.

“R-really?”

“Uh huh.”

He looks over at one of the mirrors on the wall nearby. Looks at himself in the new, airy, and normal clothes.

He still doesn’t really know how to deal with mirrors. Seeing his own reflection is strange in and of itself, as it always solidifies the fact that the boy called Crona really exists...it makes him almost uncomfortable in his existence. Crona sees himself, his lavender wisps of hair, his skeletal body, and watches as Maka comes to stand beside him, staring at him also in the mirror.

“Well?” she says, rocking back onto her heels happily. “What do you think?”

He thinks about the way that she looks standing next to him. About the fact that he is a boy, and she is a normal girl, and he is outside in the daylight right now, and she is his friend.

Crona thinks, as he shifts around slightly in the soft, new clothes, that maybe this is what being a human is supposed to look and feel like.

“I...I like it,” he decides, softly.

There is no punishment waiting for him as he speaks his mind...no reprimand for his feelings, no mistake being made in having an opinion about himself.

So he says it again. “I like it.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the store playing dress up, mixing and matching the colorful clothing that Maka brings to him, and Crona likes it.

With every new outfit Crona tries on, the wide and wider the smile on his face grows; he’s still not sure about _all_ of the outfits, still not sure how he’ll ever stop the butterflies from flickering in his stomach whenever Maka tells him that she likes this too, that she likes _him_ too...but it’s all practice, though perhaps he doesn’t realize it yet. It’s practice for him, facing this version of himself in the mirror, this version of Crona who was unseen, empty, merely a vessel for darkness, until right now.

 _I exist,_ Crona says to the reflection in the mirror, in his head.

_There I am, I’m real._

_I can look happy._

They leave spending all four hundred dollars of Maka’s gift cards.

They leave, and Crona doesn’t wear the clothes that she bought for him to school at first, but saves them for the times when she comes to visit in his room, when it’s just the two of them.

He still wears the robes in the eyes of everyone else, but when it’s just the two of them, Crona begins to practice being himself, for the very first time.


End file.
